


winter is coming

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Pre-Canon, Unhappy Ending, sif/loki big bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all Asgard's inhabitants, only the Lady Sif knew that Loki was capable of traveling between the realms with the aid of his magic, and for centuries, they traveled together around the universe in secret. They sought their own adventures separate from Thor and the Warriors Three, falling in-- and out-- of love as Loki slowly descended into madness, while Sif could do little but watch as her lover and friend became her enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter is coming

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to Marvel Comics and various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun. Title is a nod to Game of Thrones, which I obviously had nothing to do with and hilariously enough do not even watch or read, but I can't resist a good Frost Giant joke, so here we are.
> 
> [AMAZING ART](http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2013/229/f/1/bigbang_final_by_lexieken-d6ihs9z.jpg) for this story was done by the UTTERLY FANTASTIC [Lexie](http://artbylexie.tumblr.com). :DDDDDDDDDDDDD ALL GLORY TO HER. 
> 
> Thanks a million to Ann & Mary for reading this and holding my hand. <3

_Prologue_

The first and only time he says it, they are children. Thor is flat on his back on the dirt of the training ground, puffs of dust rising like clouds all around him, and Sif is standing over him, fist clenched, victorious.

Loki has never known anyone who could best his brother. He had never even contemplated the possibility that anyone might.

"I love you," he says, awed. He regrets it immediately, but the words have already escaped, and it is too late to recover them. He will be more careful of them in future. 

Moments later, he joins his brother on the ground, no breath in his lungs and a dull throbbing pain in his legs where her boot connected with them.

Sif leans over him, grinning, and offers her hand. "Again?"

"Again," he wheezes. 

\+ 

_Nidavellir_

Everything is going splendidly until Volstagg steals the pheasant. 

"Could you not _wait_?" Fandral demands. "You had to steal the sacred pheasant. This is like Svartalfheim all over again." 

"That was completely different," Volstagg insists, though of course, it wasn't, not really: at the root of both of these unfortunate occurrences was less Volstagg's insatiable appetite for hitherto unknown culinary delicacies and more Loki's infinite impulse for causing trouble, though if pressed, Loki would, naturally, deny any and all accusations of wrongdoing. He hadn't after all, _forced_ Volstagg to eat the pheasant. He had merely inquired as to his comrade's wellbeing; they had been walking for some time, and Volstagg seemed like he might be peckish, and there was the pheasant, just as he was expressing his _entirely_ genuine concern that Volstagg might, perhaps, be hungry. 

It's what friends do for one another, after all. 

"Enough," Thor shouts. "We fight the trolls first, friends, we can fight with ourselves later!" 

Loki says nothing. He will have a good laugh about this particular prank later, provided he retains the use of his head: one of the trolls has a nasty axe and a long arm, and there's no suitable place in which to hide to make his illusions work in their favor. 

They almost have their victory, but then a sudden rockslide separates the comrades from one another, the Warriors Three and Thor on one side and Loki and Sif on the other, hemmed in between death and glory. 

"Well, this looks promising," he says, as one of the trolls advances on them. "Will I see you in Valhalla, lady?" 

"There," Sif shouts suddenly, pointing to a shadowy opening in the cliff at their backs. "Valhalla can wait for another day, friend." 

She shoves him toward the cave before he can argue; he lands hard on the ground inside. Sif ducks in behind him, right on his heels, swearing as the troll's axe smacks against the cliff face, sending a cascade of rock down to block their only means of escape. After several long moments they determine that neither his magic nor her strength will do them much good: even if they move the stones, they will still be facing a horde of angry trolls.

"This was a splendid plan, my lady, really. And how many trolls did you count?" 

"Seventeen," Sif says, ignoring his jabs at her strategies. "You?" 

"The same," he sighs, leaning carefully against the rocky surface of the cave wall. "Excellent choice, this realm; I simply must remember to thank Thor properly, should we see him again before our untimely demise." 

She snorts. "Thank yourself, while you're expressing your gratitude. Or have you forgotten why exactly we came here?" 

"I have not, but _I_ certainly had nothing to do with it," he says smoothly. 

"Liar," she says, and he spreads his hands.

"Only occasionally," he says, which earns him a short laugh and a quick punch to the shoulder. She clearly meant it affectionately; otherwise he'd be on the ground. "However, this particular journey was Thor's idea, not mine. I do believe you've mistaken me for my brother." 

"I do believe I haven't," she counters. "Let's see, what was it? Oh, yes, I remember: _Snurluson's Trolls of Nidavellir: Rites & Rituals_." 

"Have you hit your head? You're making less sense than some of Fandral's tales of drunken debauchery, and those are about as nonsensical as the idea of an intelligent troll," he snipes. 

"Have you hit _your_ head?" she parrots. "You left the book out in the library yesterday." 

"I couldn't have," he says, but he hasn't denied his involvement, and in the dim light he can see her victorious grin. He lifts his shoulder in a measured, calculated shrug. "Perhaps I did. Even so, Thor is still technically responsible for this." 

"Thor still technically goes along with whatever foolish idea you happen to put into his head for your own amusement," she points out.

"Just so!" he agrees, voice ringing with false brightness. "And one day, he'll be king, and won't _that_ be a delightful time had by all." 

"You're terrible," she reprimands. "We are all of us so very young, Loki. We _all_ have lessons we must learn, do you not agree?" 

He sighs, exaggerating for effect, and a rock hits his shoulder. He does not comment on it, only smiles; Sif's ways of showing amused affection have always been slightly painful. "I suppose. But my lady, if you intend to lecture me on the deplorable nature of my own mischievous malfeasance, please, I beg you: stab me first." 

"Be careful what you wish for," she laughs, brandishing one of her daggers at him. "But I do think Thor will make a fine king. One day. When he's older." 

"And wiser," Loki amends. 

"I could say the same for all of us," she says. "No one has ever accused _you_ of being wise." 

"You wound me," he drawls. 

"I _could_ ," she says, tossing another rock at him, and he laughs. 

"Hmm. Perhaps my brother will decide the throne does not suit him. I have always supposed he'd rather be riding off to battle with you and the others than sitting on a throne all day, bored and lonely." 

"And if he does?" she laughs. 

"Then I suppose the burden of the throne would fall to me," he sighs, exaggerating the sound of it. "All so my dear brother can continue on with his adventuring." 

"Oh, I see," she says merrily. "Ruling all Asgard would be a favor to your brother." 

"I live to serve," he says, pressing his hand over his heart. 

"You already have dominion over mischief," she laughs. "The crown would only add to your already overburdened schedule, surely." 

"But it would be a whole realm with which to make trouble," he teases, and this time, the rock she throws goes wide of its target. "Armies at the ready. Oh, the fun we could have, Sif." 

"Your sense of fun is occasionally worrisome, Loki," she says, but there is, he thinks, just enough amusement in her voice.

"Are you not entertained, my lady?" he jokes, and her laughter is enough of an answer. 

"Brother! Sif!" Thor's voice drifts in from outside the cave. "We have a plan!" 

"This should be good," Loki murmurs, and Sif makes an amused humming noise in response. It is quite dark in the cave, but even so he can just see the smile on her face. 

There's a crashing noise, a dull roar, some scraping sounds, and then Thor's voice echoes down once more. "We are thinking of a new plan!" 

"Do take your time," Sif calls. She stretches her legs out in front of her, her boots scraping loudly on the hard ground. "I hope they leave us a troll or four." 

"You have already slain several," he points out. 

"Yes, but I hardly need Fandral proclaiming that this was _his_ glorious victory when we return to Asgard," she sighs. 

"No one would believe him," Loki yawns. 

She makes to reply, but then the scraping sounds return suddenly, along with Thor's voice, and they fall silent, waiting. 

"We are going to drive them back into the clearing," Thor announces. "Await our glorious return!" 

"But Thor--" Sif begins, all too late, for the thundering noise outside tells both of them that their friends have gone. 

"Oh, splendid," he says, and another rock hits him, this time directly in the center of his chest. "Really, Sif, that was uncalled for." 

"Your silver tongue isn't doing us any favors," Sif says, and he can hear in her voice that she has made a decision and that he will be required to follow along with whatever it is. "On your feet and help me with these rocks." 

He gets to his feet, but only after she throws two more rocks in his direction, each one larger than the last. Between his magic and her strength of arms, they make quick work of the rockslide now that their friends have distracted the trolls. 

Sif charges out, sword at the ready, before he can call to her to wait, and all he sees a few moments later is her body flying backwards toward the cliff face. Swearing, he runs out after her, finding himself face to face with one very angry troll, wisely left by the others as a sentinel when Thor and the Warriors Three were drawing the horde away. 

"Sif," he calls, and she grunts in response. Her usual sword arm hangs limply at her side, but she is back on her feet, at least. He dodges a swipe of the troll's axe and looks back at her. "Can you fight?" 

The look she gives him might have been lethal, had it been a weapon, and even with her injured arm hanging down at her side, she makes a run at their foe, leaping up on a nearby boulder and leaping onto the creature's back. It throws her, and quickly, but not before she makes a sizable slash across the leather straps that hold on its armor, which slithers to the hard ground next to her. 

"Distract it!" she shouts, and Loki shakes his head, but he does as she asks, using his magic to draw the creature's attention away from Sif, who fells the beast with one thrust of her sword. 

"We should find the others," she says, and though he eyes her injured arm warily, he does not comment upon it. 

"I suppose," he says. 

"This is still your fault, and don't think I've forgotten," she says, as they follow in their friends' footsteps. 

"Consider this fight to be my penance," he drawls, and she rolls her eyes. 

When all their enemies have been slain, the five of them return victorious to Asgard for the requisite feasting and drinking and boasting of daring deeds done. Those unfamiliar with the practice might suppose that anyone called _Silvertongue_ would be the lord and master of storytelling at these events, but that honor consistently goes not to those who speak with eloquence, but those who speak the loudest, and it is usually not worth the effort to clamor to be heard above Thor and the Warriors Three. As a result, Loki is exceedingly tired and bored before the third course is set before them. He entertains himself by deviling the servants and the other assembled warriors until Sif appears, fresh from the healing rooms with her arm bound up in a sling; she slips carefully into a seat next to him and gratefully takes a flagon of mead when he offers it to her, though he notes with some amusement that she does make something of a show of inspecting it before imbibing. 

_Someone_ around here still pays attention to him, it seems. 

"What have I missed?" she asks, when she has drunk her fill from the flagon, having apparently determined that the mead is real and not one of his many illusions. 

"The usual," he sighs. "The number of trolls we battled now exceeds a thousand, and it seems that one of them had two-- or possibly three-- heads, or maybe it was four arms, each with an axe the size of Nidhogg." 

"I see," she says, smiling around the lip of the flagon. "And shall we embellish our own numbers, then, Prince Silvertongue?" 

He leans closer to her, conspiratorially looking around at the assembly before he speaks; she shakes her head and laughs. "Hmm. I do seem to recall you sustaining that injury after singlehandedly battling _at least_ five trolls." 

"At the very least, it was five," she smiles, nodding along. "Or perhaps it was ten." 

"Very possible," he nods. "Extremely difficult to get an accurate accounting, what with the flying beasts overhead throwing heavy stones at us." 

"Certainly. A score of them, at least, and I am certain my lord would have offered me some assistance in the fray, had he not been presently engaged battling ten trolls of his own," she continues. 

"Truly, it is a wonder there are any trolls left in all the realms, when such fearsome warriors as we wander the worlds," he says. He holds up his flagon, and she picks up her own.

"And they will tremble with fear when next they meet us in battle," Sif concludes, knocking her flagon against his, both of them in unison draining the dregs of their respective drinks. 

"And what are the pair of you toasting over there?" Volstagg asks. 

"Our own victory, of course," Sif says, grinning and raising her flagon. 

Volstagg laughs and spreads his arms wide. "Come, tell us how many trolls you battled while we were separated, then." 

Loki looks to Sif, who raises her eyebrows at him, a challenge in her eyes, and one he gladly undertakes, regaling the crowd with their own story, drawing laughter from the assembly at Thor's unfortunate planning and cheers at the modest number of trolls he and Sif cut down. It is a good tale and well-received by all, but as the evening wears on, other tales grow louder and longer, subsuming theirs, and soon their own glorious victory pales in comparison to the labors of the rest, drowned out by jubilant shouts of their supposed comrades. It is suddenly the most tiresome thing in all the realms to think of listening to these stories for even another moment. 

"I believe I have heard enough for one evening," he says to Sif. 

"They have been fighting as the Warriors Three so much longer than we all have fought together," Sif murmurs in his ear. "Our deeds are no less great, our tales no less grand. They will remember us." 

"Perhaps one day we will do deeds so fearsome that they will be forced to remember us," he replies with a sigh. 

"I do not doubt that we will, my friend," she says, and he nods and bids her good evening. 

_Alfheim_

It is mid-morning several days hence when next he sees her; she strides purposefully toward the stone bench he occupies, and though she comes to stand next to him while he reads, he ignores her until she clears her throat and kicks unceremoniously at his feet. 

"Good morning, Lady Sif," he says. "My apologies, I did not see you there." 

She rolls her eyes. "You most certainly did." 

"On the contrary, I wasn't expecting anyone to be wandering the gardens this morning," he says. "I thought everyone had gone to Vanaheim for the festival of-- what is it, again?" 

"Oh, stop feigning disinterest," she says sullenly, dropping onto the bench beside him. "You know perfectly well why they've gone, we go every century." 

"Not _all_ of us," he says, lazily turning a page. 

He is, of course, dissembling: he does know perfectly well why Thor and the others have gone, and where they have gone, for it is the beginning of the three day festival of the hunt on Vanaheim. But the feast several nights ago had still been sour on his tongue when he spoke with Thor about the festival early this morning, and so he had declined to accompany his brother. If he is to be left out of tales, at least it will be at his own choosing and not the product of someone else's failure to notice his worth. 

Sif, however, surely did not choose to remain in Asgard this morning, and he lifts an eyebrow at the sling that holds her arm.

"I am _too injured to fight_ ," she grumbles, in a fair impersonation of Lyfia, Asgard's Master Healer. Sif points to her wounded arm. "Look at this! It's barely even broken!" 

He passes his hand a few inches over it, the proximity of it making her shiver. "Every bone in your arm has been broken. Are you not in a tremendous amount of pain?" 

"No," she denies, and he does not dignify her lie with a response other than a raised eyebrow and yet another forcibly casual turn of a page. "I've certainly had worse." 

"Hmm. Heimdall turned you away, I take it." 

"I am _fine_ ," she says, waving her good arm. "I have one good arm; I can still fight, as my brother well knows." 

He gives every appearance of having returned his attention to the book, though truly he is waiting to see if she will stay or if she will take her leave of him, forsaking his company for someone who will give her the sport she wishes. 

"And why did _you_ not go?" she demands finally. 

"I did not wish to go," he says simply, and she snorts, but she says nothing, merely stays where she is, slumped next to him, tapping her foot impatiently. Loki regards her for a moment before flicking another page with practiced nonchalance. She will go soon, surely; she has other, better friends with whom to commiserate, after all. 

Fourteen turns of a page later, she has not so much as shifted in her seat. He would marvel at her resolve, but Sif has always been stubborn. Once she has a goal in sight, she will not be moved until she has what she wants.

"There are other ways in and out of this realm," he offers finally, when it seems she has no interest in taking her leave. 

"I am listening," she replies, but he falls silent once more, needling her with indifference. 

When he does not elaborate immediately, she looks as though she might strangle him, and he cannot help but chuckle at her aggrieved impatience. She grinds the heel of her boot against the pathway. "Yes? And? _Please_ , my lord, do enlighten me with this knowledge." 

He clears his throat in lieu of laughing; there is a fine line to walk between being an aggravation to the Lady Sif and being an annoyance. One path leads to moderately fond, if painful, physical protestations, but the other leads to active dislike, and he suspects that he shouldn't like to find himself so out of favor with a warrior such as she. 

He gives her a _very_ innocent smile, at which she rolls her eyes once more, but there is the faintest trace of a smile around her mouth, and he knows that he is safe from bodily harm for the moment. "I merely mention it," he says, waving his hand, "because I had read somewhere of secret paths between the realms, but you would, of course, need to find a magician who was both willing to escort you hence and who was capable of doing so, and as it did seem to be a rather _difficult_ spell--" 

Sif interrupts him, jabbing at his shoulder. "Cease your wretched prevarication and answer me this: will you take me, or no?" 

"I am flattered that you would think I could," he says, bowing ostentatiously. 

"You are the finest magician we have produced since the Allfather himself studied arcana," Sif tells him. Flattery it may well be, but it has hit its mark, and he smiles proudly behind his hand. "If you cannot do it there are none who can." 

"The _finest_ magician?" he queries, but from the haughty lift of her eyebrows, he can tell that she knows her ploy has worked. Nevertheless, he cannot let her have her victory so easily, and he leans back lazily against the bench, folding his arms over his chest. "Lady, your flattery lacks a considerable degree of subtlety." 

"Had I told you that you were anything less than that, this conversation would already be at an end, and I would be no closer to my goal," she points out. 

"I see," he replies, setting the book aside and crossing his arms over his chest. "And where exactly did you think this flattery might get you?" 

"Alfheim, for all the care I have," she says. "And so?" 

He picks up the book and gets to his feet. "How can Asgard's finest magician possibly deny its finest lady warrior?" 

"I am Asgard's _only_ lady warrior," she says, narrowing her eyes at him, and his answering smirk earns him a swift punch to the ribs from her uninjured fist. 

He lets her land it. 

Once they have gathered all their necessary accoutrements, Sif with her sword and shield and he with his daggers, they return to the garden, where he casts the spell that will take them out of this realm, his magic cleaving open a space between Asgard and the interstellar branches of Yggdrasil. 

"After you," he says, bowing, and she raises an eyebrow, but she stalks boldly onward nevertheless, the portal snapping shut behind them only when he tells it to do so. 

"This is...not Vanaheim," Sif says, when at last they exit the tree. 

"I thought the lady wished to be taken to Alfheim," Loki replies. He presses his hand against his chest, where his heart should be. "My apologies." 

Sif bristles. "Loki--" 

"Sif, had I taken you to Vanaheim, how long do you suppose my brother would have kept your secret?"

It is a good lie, and exceptionally told, but Sif has no use for it; she rolls her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. 

"Oh, you have done this for _me_ , have you," Sif drawls. "That you had your own motives for keeping this particular ability of yours a secret can have had absolutely no influence on your choice of our destination, I am certain." 

"You might at least express your gratitude at my thoughtfulness," he says, ever so slightly churlish, for he had almost believed his own lie, or at least he had believed in the strength of it, and she has caught him out in a most disdainful fashion. 

"And so I might, if you were ever thoughtful," she tosses back, playful, and at that he does smile in spite of himself. 

"I shall endeavour to be more so in future," he replies, and though she understands it as the jest it is intended to be, for his part there is a sliver of truth in it, at least. 

They have not wandered far when a small child hurtles out of the forest and runs directly toward them. By its dress and manner it appears to be elven, but the denizens of Alfheim rarely trouble visitors from Asgard, and Loki is not overly trusting of anyone, even a child. Perhaps especially a child, he considers, thinking of his own youth. He exchanges a concerned glance with Sif; she is no doubt concerned for the child, while Loki is concerned that they will find themselves embroiled in some needless conflict. 

"My lord, my lady, please, we beg your assistance," the child says. 

"What is the matter, child?" Sif asks. 

"Yes, speak," Loki sighs, resigned. Sif kicks his shin, quite without subtlety; he makes no response, but he does stand a bit straighter and attempt to adopt some semblance of concern. 

"Our village is under attack," the child tells them, her trembling arm pointing awkwardly behind them towards the hills. Loki can see smoke rising above the trees. "It is a dragon that has come for us. It has burned half the village, please, will you not help us?" 

"And why have you asked our assistance?" Loki asks. He considers it to be a reasonable question, and this time he sidesteps Sif's foot when it flies toward his leg. "We might be in league with your nemesis the dragon, for all you know." 

Sif turns her eyes heavenward; he shrugs as innocently as he can manage, which is not, admittedly, much. 

"You are of Asgard, my lord," the child says, turning her hopeful face toward him. "You are warriors." 

" _Some_ of us fit that description," he says wryly.

"Enough," Sif says, interrupting him before he can confuse the child further. "Child, have you no warriors of your own?" 

"They have all died, my lady," the child says sadly, and Sif nods, once, jaw set, and Loki knows there is little point in arguing; it is decided. 

"Go home," Sif tells the child. "We will do what you ask; this foe will trouble you no further." 

"Have you considered that the child might be lying?" Loki asks. 

"I considered it," Sif remarks. "I decided I did not care. If it is a trap we are walking into, Loki, then those who have set it will swiftly be made to regret it." 

"You have one broken arm and there is every chance that my magic will be useless against this particular foe," he points out. 

"And that is exactly why we must do this," she says. 

"All the more glory in the victory," he sighs, and she nods. "When are you going to stop trying to prove your worth as a warrior?" 

"About the time you stop trying to prove your worth as a prince," she parries, walking on past him without waiting for an answer. Several paces later, she turns, gesturing with her sword, frowning, tapping her foot impatiently. "Shall we?" 

"I would like to register a strong objection to this and any future good deeds," he grumbles, but he follows her regardless. "I brought you here, and this is how you repay my kindness? By asking me to help _peasants_?" 

She makes no reply, only continues on. 

It is not, despite his protestations, a trap. It is only a dragon, small but vicious. They crouch behind an outcropping of rock, discussing strategies. 

"You have done more reading on this subject than I have," Sif says, frowning as they watch the creature digging into a herdbeast. "What are your thoughts?" 

That she is soliciting his opinion does not escape him, but he cannot help but feel a brooding annoyance surface when she puts this burden onto _his_ shoulders, as though all he is good for in a fight is _information_ instead of strength in arms like all the rest of them.

"Oh yes," he grumbles. "Ask the magician. He's essentially a repository for facts, after all, all that time with books and his mother--" 

"I was hardly deriding your choices," Sif breaks in, knocking her shoulder against his. "Or your mother, whom I love as my own. And I spend a fair amount of time in the library myself. I am asking your advice, Loki, because I value it."

Placated, he resumes watching the beast in front of them, thinking. "There are seventeen species of dragons," Loki says, frowning thoughtfully. "This one is smaller than most, but not to be underestimated. Highly intelligent, very lethal." 

"I thought we were talking about dragons," she says, raising her eyebrows at him. 

"Why, Lady Sif, I had no idea you cared," he drawls, hand over his heart in a mockery of a traditional salute. 

"I was referring to myself," she jokes. 

It is, perhaps, not the easiest fight either of them has ever been engaged in, but they do make a formidable team: his magic keeps them hidden from sight in a veil of shadows, and this time she offers the distraction, vaulting up onto the beast's back and dancing on light feet down its spine while Loki waits for the right opportunity to step out of hiding and fling one of his daggers into the creature's vulnerable underbelly, slicing its stomach open from side to side. The beast falls to the ground with a great thud that reverberates around the clearing, and Sif leaps down from its back nimbly, barely even wincing when the movement jostles her injured arm. 

"That will be an excellent story for the banquet hall," she laughs, idly polishing a spot of dragon's blood off the silver plating of her boot. 

"About that," he begins, and she groans. 

"Oh, do not say it." 

"It can be our secret for now," he says, spreading his hands. "Can it not?" 

"As you wish, my prince," she sighs, executing a half-hearted bow, but foregoing the traditional salute, her injured arm hanging limply at her side, the sling for it discarded and forgotten during the battle. "If you wish to forestall the telling of our tale of victory until such time as you see fit-- say, after some grand tale of Thor's-- well, that is no matter to _me_." 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he says blandly, and she shakes her head, but makes no further comment on it, and when they return to Asgard, she keeps their secret. 

+  
 _Vanaheim_

"And _then_ ," young Arnor says, bringing his arm up overhead like he is holding a sword, "Thor and the Warriors Three slew the beast and left its carcass to rot in the sun as a warning to all other forms of wickedness that might seek to trouble the villagers." 

Sif listens to this creative retelling of a recent adventure with a sigh, for in this particular version, the Lady Sif and Prince Loki were, apparently, the Lord and Lady Not Appearing In This Tale, no matter that they had been largely responsible for the victory. The others had certainly been valiant and brave during that battle, and they had slain many foes, but at the day's end two of their company had stood out from the others in valor, and it had _not_ been Thor and the collective known as the Warriors Three.

She grips her sword tightly in her hand and puts the tale from her mind, taking to the training yard with a ferocity that startles some of the warriors around her. Her sword sings as it slices through the air, and she loses herself to the melody of it. There are days when she thinks she could singlehandledly avert Ragnarok and still they would sing songs of her friends' great victories, leaving her own deeds unmarked. Those are the days when she grows stronger; those are the days when everyone else limps away from the yards with her bootprint on their backs. 

If she is to be left out of these tales, so be it: the Lady Sif shall make her own. Songs will be sung of the deeds of her hand and the fearsome weapons she wields. Some of those songs should already have been sung, she thinks, glowering at a line of straw foes at the outer edge of the yard, but it is no matter. She has already done great things, and if they have not all been marked by Asgard, that is not entirely Asgard's fault, for some of them, at least, have been secrets. 

As her sword slices through wood and straw, she thinks of Alfheim and of the dragon she and Loki fought there, years ago. She knows a moment's fierce anger at him for never telling that tale, for keeping his abilities a secret when there are mages in Asgard's courts who would dishonor their own fathers for the chance to be half as gifted as he. To travel between worlds without need of the bifrost! And still he thinks of himself as lesser, still the songs of their friends are louder than their own melodies. They are both more than a harmonious complement to a ballad that sings only of the others, they are their own songs with their own strengths. 

The last training dummy falls to her feet, cleaved in two by the force of her blow. 

"Lady Sif!" 

Thor and the Warriors Three call to her from across the yard, and she sheaths her sword and trots out to meet them. 

"If you have come for a fight, friends, today I will take all of you on at once," she swears, planting her palm firmly against the pommel of her sword. 

"After what you've done to the poor dummy?" Volstagg laughs, pointing. "I do not think I will willingly embrace such a fate today, Lady Sif." 

"As you like," she says, shrugging, but she smiles at her friends nevertheless. 

"We would be glad to give you the sport you seek, Sif, but we are bound for Nornheim this day," Thor says brightly. "Will you join our company?" 

"We are sent to rout a band of trolls," Hogun explains. "Surely that would be sport like unto that which you sought." 

"If you are comparing us to trolls, friend, I would pray you speak for yourself," Fandral interjects, running his hand over his beard, vainly checking to assure himself it is perfectly groomed. "This fair visage does not merit such a comparison."

They laugh, trading jokes and trading blows until Thor, still chuckling, holds up his hand to forestall any further distractions. 

"Friends, friends, we must be off, the Norns require our assistance. Sif, what say you, will come or no?" 

She looks to her friends and then back to the yard, where the pieces of the training equipment still lie on the dusty ground, hewn apart by the strength of her hands and the force of her frustration. 

"Not today," she says. "For I have my own stories to tell, friends, while you are telling yours." 

"Very well," Thor says, motioning to the others, though he looks at her with a curious frown on his face. "If you should change your mind, Sif, Heimdall will find us for you." 

"Ask him where the handsomest warrior may be, that should do it," Fandral tells her, and she grins and shakes her head. 

"Oh, yes. I shall ask where the prettiest face in all Nornheim is, and Heimdall will take me to the ancient withered Norns," she calls, and Fandral shakes his fist good-naturedly at her while the others cackle. 

Her friends disappear from her view, and a while later she sees the bright blue flash of the bifrost and knows they have gone. Sif returns to her chambers to change out of her training leathers, wondering where in the realms she will go to seek out her own glory. She thinks back to Arnor's retelling, his unwitting omission of her feats and Loki's. Loki had not been with the others, so perhaps he, too, had felt disinclined to follow their friends today. Frowning thoughtfully, she makes a few final adjustments to her armor, then collects her swords and goes to seek him out. 

She finds him in the mages' courts, practising some elemental spell. His movements are so lazy that one might think him inattentive, but Sif knows better; his mask of indifference is only that-- a mask-- and underneath it lies a mind that is always sure to notice even the most minute details. If she were to move her hand even slightly toward her weapons, that spell-ice would be upon her with a vicious intensity. She lets her fingers twitch, just so; the ice stops a hair's breadth from her waiting hand. 

"Careful," he says, and she grins. 

"That is useful," she says approvingly, watching the trail of ice as he directs it backwards through the air, away from her hands. 

"Indeed. But I thought you would have gone with the others," he says, and she shakes her head, the long braid of her hair flapping emphatically against the armor at her shoulders as she does. 

"I told them I wanted to go out and claim my own victory on this day," she says. "Why did _you_ not go?" 

He frowns. "Thor said they were off to fight trolls. Is there nothing new in all the nine realms that we are forever doomed to repeat old adventures? Give me a quiet day with a new spell over--" 

"More trolls," they say together. 

"Just so," he says, smiling thinly over at her, though she suspects the fragility of his expression is not entirely to be trusted; his eyes are much warmer than his smile. 

"New spells, you said?" she suggests, her own eyes bright, a hint of a grin still on her face. 

He must have been just as bored today as she, for he lets the spell-ice fall away without any prevarication whatsoever, and does not worry her patience at all before he agrees. 

He claps his hands together and looks over at her, expectant. "Where did you have in mind?" 

"I believe I am owed a journey to Vanaheim," she says, and he shrugs. 

"As you wish," he tells her, and they make their way to the gardens, where Loki can cast the spell that will bear them hence in secrecy. 

Vanaheim is no Asgard, but she has her charms: the air is salty and warm, but not uncomfortably so, and the breeze sends stray tendrils of Sif's hair flying back and forth as she and Loki walk through the gardens. It is no battle, but nor is it altogether boring, for from the highest point of the towering gardens she has an excellent view of the armies of the Vanir and their warriors at practice. She critiques their form for so long that she barely remembers she's doing it aloud, and then looks over to see if he's even still paying her any attention.

There's an odd look on his face, and it strikes her after a moment that he looks _happy_ ; it is all the more striking to realize that this expression is not one she has seen on his face in at least a century. 

"You're in good spirits," she remarks, and his mood shifts almost instantly. 

"What of it?" he asks, suspicious and cagey, his shoulders set up high, hands tense at his sides. 

"It is good to see, that is all I meant," she sighs. 

Loki stops walking, arms crossed over his chest. "Because I appear unhappy at home?" 

"By my sword, Loki, that is not what I meant," she says, although it most certainly is. She knocks her arm against his. "I am merely pleased to see _my friend_ in good humor, especially as I have spent the afternoon giving you an unwanted lecture on the fighting styles of the Vanir." 

His shoulders drop down again, away from his ears. "It was very...informative," he settles for saying, though the teasing quality of the long pause between his words is not lost on her, and she digs her elbow into his ribs. 

"If you are ever forced to leave Asgard after one too many pranks," she says, laughing as they resume walking, "you should come here for a time. It suits you." 

"Have a care, lady," he says. He falls into step beside her once more. "Or I shall feel compelled to turn our steps toward the mages' courts, to repay the _incredible kindness_ of this neverending discussion of armaments." 

"I think you enjoyed it," she says, smiling, "else we would already have found ourselves hence, and you would doubtless be giving them all a demonstration of your superior spellwork by now." 

"Perhaps," he says, and though she does not doubt that his answering smile is genuine, this time she keeps her thoughts on his good humour to herself. 

Together they wander the streets of Vanaheim until evening is upon them, the suns slanting dim and low in the sky above them. She is somewhat surprised to find that she has passed a very pleasant afternoon in his company, for Vanaheim has done for his disposition what Asgard has not, these past few centuries, and though he has had occasion to tease her on their long walk through the largest city of this realm, it has never felt as malicious as it oft does when they are at home. Today she sees in him the light-hearted, quick-witted boy of her youth, the boy who used to make her laugh until she ached, at least until Thor would interrupt their jesting with a story or a rousing call to adventure. As such, the thought of home is tempered by a strange reluctance to return home, lest whatever spell this place has put on him dissipate upon their arrival. 

When they come to a tavern on one of the city's many winding roads, she suggests that they stop for a meal instead of turning their steps toward home.

The tavern where they dine that evening is one that the Warriors Three would doubtless have loved, for it is the sort of place they often beg the others to stop while they are out adventuring, full of loud, rough men with more weapons than sense and cheap ale to fuel their embellished tales of glory. Attached to the dingy tavern is an equally dingy inn, where the weary can sleep off their drinking. She and Loki make an odd pair in the midst of all these men, but though the conversation dwindles to a dull roar when they make their entrance, it resumes its boisterous volume once they settle themselves down at a table in the far corner. Sif settles her sword carefully upon the table, a word of caution to anyone who might be thinking of causing them trouble. 

A young maiden brings them plates of food and flagons of mead so full that the drink drips down the outside; Sif looks at it warily as the girl begins to set the flagons near to her sword. 

"Mind my sword, child," Sif chides, when the girl sets down their drinks. The child blinks in confusion and nearly upsets their ale; Loki waves his hand and the liquid quiets without spilling. 

"It is _yours_ , my lady?" the girl asks. 

"It certainly isn't mine," Loki drawls. He flexes his fingers, and a thin trail of green smoke rises up from them, to the surprise and delight of the girl. "I'm a _magician_ , not a _warrior_ , as Asgard would have it told." 

"You're as much of a warrior as anyone," Sif disagrees, playfully flinging a piece of fried fish in his direction. He freezes it in midair and it falls to the table with a thunk. "See? Imagine that was an enemy." 

"And so I did," he says, and she knocks her leg against his. 

"My elder brother is to be a mage," the girl tells them. "He is away studying at their courts now, and I must do all the work here instead of sneaking away to watch the armies." 

"And why would you be watching _them_?" Loki asks. Underneath the table, his foot kicks playfully against Sif's shin. "Surely drudgery is more entertaining than military exercises." 

"No, my lord," the child replies, shaking her head. "My father is the keeper of this tavern, I have grown up watching the fighting. I want to be a warrior, but father says I must help run the inn, as maidens have no place on the battlefield." 

"What is your name, child?" Sif inquires, ignoring Loki's bothersome foot for the moment. 

"Marjatta," the girl says. 

Their conversation is interrupted, for the girl's father, the innkeeper, summons his daughter to him. But when he sees the strange guests with whom she is conversing, he approaches the table instead, surveying the strangers seated there with a curious frown. Sif rests her hand on the hilt of her sword, just in case; the innkeeper looks from Sif's hand to Loki's face. 

"You let your woman carry your swords?" the innkeeper grunts.

"She isn't _mine_ ," Loki says, just as the girl points to Sif and her swords and says, "They're _her swords_ , Father." 

Sif's hand curves around the grip of her sword as she stares up at the innkeeper, daring him to challenge her worth as a warrior.

"Well," Loki says, leaning back in his chair and surveying the situation, " _this_ will be entertaining." 

Sif kicks at him under the table, but not out of playfulness this time; her boot lands hard just on the inside of his knee, and though it must have hurt, he makes no sound. He does have his revenge rather swiftly, for her drink is solid ice when she goes to pick it up. She bares her teeth at him over the rim of the cup and bites into it, swallowing the frozen liquor whole. His eyebrows lift, just so, but he makes no comment.

"They are warriors from Asgard," Marjatta continues loudly, while Loki sighs and covers his mouth with one hand. "On Asgard they know that women can fight as well as men." 

"Do they now?" the innkeeper says scornfully, while his daughter nods, ignorant, perhaps, of both her father's disdain and the curious interest of the other diners. 

The conversation has indeed begun to attract attention from the other ruffians in the tavern, and Sif knows that Loki is counting their numbers just as she is. There are only thirty-seven of them, all in various stages of inebriation; yet drunken men may still deadly, for they often fight without reservation or fear. 

She prefers to fight that way at all times, so perhaps it is the only way they will have something approaching a fair match.

One of the drunkards at a nearby table lurches over to see what the innkeeper and his daughter are about; his friends follow, five large men forming a half-circle around the table, trapping them between the men and the wall of the tavern. It is obviously meant to inspire fear, but Sif is only amused, while Loki for his part looks merely resigned. Sif crunches away at her still-frozen mead, cheered considerably by the prospect of a good fight; Loki shakes his head and flicks his fingers and the ice dissolves back into liquid, just in time to slosh against her chin when she leans toward it.

"What's this, then," the man asks, while Sif glares at Loki and wipes the mead from her chin. "Is Asgard so desperate for warriors that it has its women fighting now?" 

Sif turns her head slowly up to meet the man's eyes. "If you would like a demonstration of your ignorance, the lady would be glad to oblige." 

"Oooh, a challenge," one of the others says. Under the table, Loki's foot slides against hers; when she looks to him, he makes a barely perceptible motion with his fingers, and she knows he would rather avoid the fight she considers to be inevitable. She taps his foot twice, an old signal but a familiar one, and he rolls his eyes and stares at the ceiling. 

"At least one of them might be a challenge, "one of them says, looking down at Loki, scorn plainly evident on his face. " _This_ is no warrior of Asgard. Not unless they've got children and weaklings fighting for them now." 

One angry muscle tics in Loki's forehead, just over his left eye, while Sif grips her flagon so tightly that the metal groans. "On the contrary," Sif growls, "he and I are both of us renowned for our skill on the battlefield, and if you do not stop your useless chattering, we will _absolutely_ best--"

"Be going," Loki says hurriedly, making an apologetic gesture. He makes to stand, but Sif stays where she is. He may not wish to defend his own honor, but _she_ does. Still, he beckons to her. "We had best _be going_ , I am sure the lady meant to say. _Immediately_." 

"No, no, by all means, _friends_ ," the man says, teeth gleaming in the firelight when he smiles at them, one meaty hand pressing down on each of their shoulders, " _stay_. We were about to begin the fighting, and if you are so _renowned_ , we would love to have a _demonstration_." 

"Excellent," Sif says, just as Loki mutters, "Damn." 

With a gentle but vicious grace, she shrugs out from under the hand of their antagonist; Loki might have done the same, though from the way the man's hand flies away from Loki's shoulder, she suspects that magic had a hand in it. The man shoves roughly at Loki, who straightens his back and stands tall and proud. 

"Touch me again," Loki says, a chill in his words that makes her shiver, though the lout that threatens them pays it no mind, "and you will need to learn to fight without the aid of that arm." 

"Such words," the man says, roaring with laughter, and when Loki looks at him and _smiles_ , that is the moment that she knows she has his full support in this fight, no matter how much he may grumble about it.

The men march them towards the back of the tavern, where a stone door is set in the far wall. Loki leans against her so that he can speak into her ear. "If we survive this," he mutters, "I am not conveying you to any further realms." 

"Liar," she says, grinning fiercely at him, and he lets out a theatrical sigh and looks heavenward. 

"Allfather, give me strength," he murmurs. 

"You don't need his," she tells him. "You have your own." 

He does not thank her, but his steps next to her have a sureness that she did not hear in them moments before, and the corners of his mouth turn up towards the stars as they make their way into an arena that abuts the back of the tavern. In the early light of evening, Sif can see cages set in along the ring, sliding doors over each cage concealing the snarling beasts behind them. They rattle and shake the cages when they hear the voices of the men. 

"What do we have for our _guests_?" the innkeeper asks the ringleader of men. 

"Special delivery from Niflheim," the ringleader replies, and Sif and Loki exchange glances. If these men think that warriors of Asgard will walk away from a fight to be branded cowards, they are wrong, no matter what those cages hold. "We do offer a prize purse for any who can defeat them all, but no one has yet claimed it." 

While the men laugh with ominous intent, Sif draws her sword, putting a little more effort in than is strictly necessary, relishing the way her sword sings as it swishes through the air. In the reflection of the blade, she can see some of the men shifting uneasily, and she smiles at them. 

"I will enjoy relieving you of both," she says. 

"Do not taunt the gentlemen, Lady Sif," Loki laughs. "At least wait until we two have defeated what it no doubt took them thirty men to capture." 

"There were only sixteen in our company when we took 'em!" one of the men shouts, much to the ringleader's dismay. He steps forward and shoves Sif and Loki further into the ring. There is a corresponding rattling and growling from the cages, and she grips her sword more tightly while Loki flexes his fingers. As the men shuffle quickly away, Sif and Loki each turn to survey the arena; she can feel his shoulders pressing up against hers as they both turn to look in opposite directions. The bars on the cages begin to retract, and clawed feet emerge angrily from the newly enlarged spaces between the bars. 

"Hounds of Hel," Sif swears, looking half over her shoulder to see Loki's reaction. "Yggdrasil's roots, it _would_ be the children of Gram." 

"Were you attempting to conjure some?" Loki asks. "I think you may have done." 

She swings her sword menacingly in front of her, ignoring his feigned irritation. "Have you fought these creatures before?" 

"Never before," he says, rubbing his hands together, "and perhaps never again." 

"Do not be so pessimistic, Loki, you know we shall have our victory," she says. The cages open entirely, freeing the hounds. 

"Wait," Loki says, before she dives into the fray. 

"I hope you know what you're about," she says, but she stays where she is, trusting him. Just as the snarling teeth and vicious claws of the hellhounds come near enough to do damage, she feels him make a sharp movement with his arm, and a ring of fire springs up around them, keeping the hounds out. 

"Well done," she says approvingly.

"A show for our friends," he says, and she laughs. "It will only keep them at bay for a moment. How do you want to do this?" 

"Take the flanks," she says, surveying the circling pack of dogs through the magical flame that surrounds them. Her searching eyes find the one hound that is larger than the others; it growls at her, and she snarls back. "I want the leader." 

"As you like," he says. "Ready?" 

"Always," she answers, and at his command, the flames dissipate. 

There are eight of the benighted things besides the pack leader, and it takes all of Sif and Loki's strength and skill to defeat them. Loki, ever agile, leaps up on the cages, the better to fling deadly spells at the snarling dogs at his feet. He picks them off two in short order, but she has no time to admire his handiwork, for she takes on two of the beasts at once before the leader slams into her, biting and snarling. Sif feels its teeth scratch roughly along her swordarm, and she loses her sword in the rush of pain that follows. The hound pins her to the floor of the arena, teeth bared at her neck, and she kicks sharply upward, finding a tender spot. The thing yelps and rolls off her; as it backs away, she can see one of Loki's daggers embedded in its flank.

"I did not ask for your aid!" she shouts, though she is grateful all the same. 

"Perhaps I wanted my own moment of glory!" he shouts back, but he can say nothing further, as the remaining hounds circle around him, and she turns her attention back to the leader, dodging and attacking. 

They finish the fight together, Sif driving her sword into the leader's throat while across the arena, Loki's spells end the miserable lives of the final two creatures. She grins at him over the carcasses of the creatures, and he shakes his head and swipes at a bleeding scratch across his pale cheek. 

Her swordarm is irritated by the slash of the hellhound's claws, but she stalks off the field of battle next to Loki with her head held high, and grudgingly, the innkeeper hands her a purse of prize money when she holds out her hand for it. She takes it with her injured hand, and the pain is nothing in comparison to the satisfaction of seeing his face go pale as he backs away from her with far quicker steps than before. 

"Did you have plans for that?" Loki asks, nodding at the bag of coins.

"I had thought of making them eat it," she says. Blood or sweat trickles down from her hairline; she gives it no consideration. "But I suppose that I do not." 

"As amusing as that might be, my lady, I did have another idea," he says, so she hands it to him, glad to relieve her aching bones from the slight weight of it. 

The innkeeper's daughter Marjatta stands nearby, shyly watching the two warriors converse; when Loki steps in her direction, her eyes grow wide, twin blue moons set in her small face. 

"The Lady and I think this would be better used in the hands of someone who has more need of it," he says, dropping the purse into the child's hands. 

"But whatever shall I do with it, my lord?" Marjatta asks, though she clings to the purse of coins as though it is her very life's essence. 

Loki glances back to where Sif stands, watching the two of them intently. "I think perhaps you should get yourself a sword, if you are ever to be a warrior," he tells her. His action causes a curious sort of sensation in Sif's chest; she ignores it. 

"That was an unexpected kindness from you," she says, when they have returned home. 

"It merely amused me to think of that child causing trouble for her father. Besides, we hardly needed a worthless bag of coins from Vanaheim," he says gruffly, and she does not remark upon it further. 

There is something in his face that she cannot decipher, some strangeness that passes as soon as he sees she has marked it. 

"Goodnight, my lady," he says, exiting the gardens without another word. She watches him go, listening to the quiet thudding of his footsteps and the snapping of the leather of his armor at the backs of his legs as he hurries away. 

"Goodnight, my friend," she says, quite after the point at which he might have heard.

+  
 _Muspelheim_

The feast of Thrimilci, normally a joyous affair, is for Sif to be less so this year, for her mother has decided that this must be the year that her wayward daughter shall finally, at long last, become someone's betrothed. Her mother has exhibited a strong preference for Thor; Sif has exhibited a strong preference for violence. 

She objects to this match most vociferously on several grounds, not least that she has absolutely no desire to be subject to a husband's commands, even to a friend as dear as Thor. It is not only her ill feeling about the idea of marriage; in her heart, she fears what would happen if she were to be wedded to someone whose title would eventually demand that she take Frigga's place. Sif is no queen, no Allmother; she is a sharp blade and a battle cry. Her path leads to war, not to a crown. 

Naturally, her mother hears none of her protestations, and pernicious rumours begin to circulate about their engagement. Sif challenges every young warrior who utters such falsehoods to combat, but even their defeats do not stop their useless chatter, and by the evening of the feast she has had more than enough of the company of others, so she forsakes the feast and wanders alone through the forest on the outer edge of the palace. The noise of the revels follows her even here, but at least it is quieter.

She finds Loki reading alone under a willow tree, absentmindedly practising spellwork; the book floats in front of him while light pours up from his hands, illuminating the boughs of the tree above him. She watches him for a moment, heart lightened by the calm, steady glow of the spell-light and the promise of a kindred spirit. His absence from the feast gives her hope; she wonders if perhaps he would be willing to set aside his books and travel with her again, for tonight she desires to be elsewhere, and his company would be vastly preferable to those who would constantly harangue her about marriage. 

"If you have sought me out to bring me back," he murmurs, his attention never wavering from the book in front of him, "you will not find me willing to leave. I am not for feasts this evening." 

"Nor am I," she tells him, stepping closer to him, smiling. "Good evening, Loki." 

"Good evening, Lady Sif," he replies, as the book closes up in midair and settles itself against the tree. He looks up and gives her a thin smile, so unlike the one she remembers him wearing in Vanaheim. "Or shall I refer to you as my brother's future queen?" 

She groans. "Oh, by Odin's great empty eye socket, not _you_ as well," Sif says, pacing along the waterfront. 

"Oh, indeed, me as well," he drawls. "Hardly anything happens in Asgard that I do not know about." 

"Hardly anything happens in Asgard that you didn't have a hand in, more like," she says, eying him shrewdly, and he shrugs. 

"I have to do _something_ while you're all off having adventures," he says, and he does not add the words _without me_ , but she hears them all the same. 

"I was going to suggest that we have our own," Sif says, crossing her arms over her chest, "but as you seem to share the opinion of the rest of Asgard as regards my _matrimonial duty_ \--" 

"I never said I _agreed_ with the rumours I began," he grumbles, and through her general irritation comes a flash of something else, something faintly hopeful, but hope for what, she cannot say. 

"Good! I thought surely _you_ of all of them would know better." 

"Oh?" he asks, grinning slyly up at her. "And why am I so honored as to be preemptively exempted from your wrath?" 

"Because you know what it is to fear insignificance," she says simply, for she thought that they had shared enough of each other of the years that it should be obvious. Loki, however, does not take it as such, and he leans back, as startled as if she had slapped him, though his shock soon turns to anger, a snarling curl of his upper lip replacing the rounded circle of surprise that had been there moments before.

"I do not deserve such praise from you, my lady, I am certain," he snaps, standing and vanishing his book away. When he makes to leave, she reaches out for him, her fingers curling tightly around his slender wrist.

"I did not mean it as a slight," she protests, and the tug of his arm away from her hand ceases, so she lets go, pushing her back against the solid trunk of the tree. "Please, my friend, don't go."

"I will stay if you will explain your ill humor," he grumbles. "And refrain from casting further aspersions on my character."

She fights not to raise her eyebrows at him, for she knows that she had not missed her mark earlier: it is all that either of them fears, to dwindle into obscurity, their own great deeds nothing but pale shadows, forever chasing after the mighty achievements of their comrades. "Yes, your highness," she drawls, and he shakes his head, but at least he remains at her side. 

"I take it you are not thrilled by the prospect of marriage to my brother," he says at length. He sounds surprised, which she finds curious, but she does not remark upon it. 

"I am not thrilled by the prospect of marriage," she says instead, plucking a smooth stone from the ground and turning it over nervously in her hand. "Nor am I thrilled at the prospect of ruling. It suits your mother. It does not suit me." 

"You would make a magnificent queen," he says, and there is an edge of bitterness and regret to it that he does manage to disguise with his compliment.

Sif tosses the stone in her hand into the water, counting the ripples it makes as it descends to the bottom of the clear stream. "Perhaps so, perhaps not. But I know for certain that I prefer the life I chose," she says. "How many queens in the history of Asgard have ridden to war?"

"None that I know of," he admits, taking up a rock of his own. With the aid of his magic, he sends it sailing farther than hers; it glances off a tree on the far side of the stream before bouncing back into the water with a splash. "But you are no stranger to forging new paths, surely, my lady. I am certain you would find your way."

"By Yggdrasil's roots, Loki, who put you up to these ridiculous statements? Surely not your brother," she says, properly horrified at the very idea, and worried that he had. 

Loki picks at a patch of grass at the ground between them. The motion is no doubt intended to be idle, but there is a nervousness to it that she does not miss. "Would you truly not say yes, if he had?"

"No!" she protests. 

"Why ever not? I am given to understand that no woman has ever left my brother's bed with complaints," he says wryly. "What more can you possibly want from a husband, my lady?" 

She elbows him, and he shoves playfully back at her. "That is nothing I want from your brother. Thor is... a comrade, a brother, he is the annoying brat I used to flip on his back in the training yard when we were children, and one day he will be our king and I will march proudly under his banner, but still with all my love for him I would not be _Thor's_ queen," she says, surprising herself, not with the force of her statement but with the curiousness of her inflection, as though her speech has betrayed something to her ears that only her heart had known before. Whose queen would she be, if not Thor's? She waits for him to ask this of her, uncertain of her own reply; mercifully, he does not, leaving her to worry over her words in silence. 

"Still, queen is perhaps a better title than the one you wear at present, is it not?" he says at last, and she shakes her head. 

"Not when it is all that you are, all that you are allowed to be. I could be a queen for your brother, I suppose, but what then? Your mother is mother to us all, and she does her duty with grace and dignity, but for my part, I cannot countenance it. What challenge is there in that for me, what glory? It is nothing I want, to waste my days away at court, to never again have the soldiers with whom I have gone into battle look at me as an equal. There is _nothing_ for me in that but a slow death and a long life of utter insignificance, and I may fear little, Loki, but I do fear that." 

"I have seen you in battle," he says. "I do not think they will ever deny you the right to ride to war, lady, whatever else your future holds." 

"Thank you," she says quietly. She palms another rock in her hand, hefting it carefully and eyeing the surface of the nearby stream; this time, the rock skips faithfully along the surface. Loki sends another stone along the same path as hers, following just behind, but where hers skips on and jumps neatly onto the opposite bank, his lands flatly on the surface of the water and stays there, held in place by spellwork that has frozen the stream from top to bottom. 

"Do not leave it that way," she says, laughing. "Some of the horses water here, and they will startle to find the place frozen." 

"It will melt on its own," he says, waving his hand lazily. 

She turns her head to look at him, staring until he looks over and meets her eyes. "Will it?" she asks, for she knows him well enough to know when he is lying, and she knows that it will not. He looks blandly back at her, blinking slowly, green eyes full of nothing but blithe innocence. She kicks at his foot. " _Loki_." 

The smallest sliver of movement plays at the edge of his lips, and she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. 

"As you wish," he sighs, and the ice breaks apart with a bored flick of his wrist, leaving blocks of ice floating downstream. 

She finds it unsettling, but cannot say why; they lapse into silence.

"It occurs to me," he says, long after the noise from the palace has dwindled down to a dull roar, "that we have never yet been to Muspelheim." 

"Fire demons? Is that _wise_ , my lord?" she asks, recalling their old joke from centuries ago, and he smiles at the allusion. 

"I can think of no wiser gift to give a warrior than a cadre of unsuspecting fire demons, I think." 

"Then let us be off," she says, grinning as she gets to her feet, pulling him along with her as she stands, only releasing his fingers when he begins to cast the spell. 

It is, predictably, sweltering in the realm of Muspelheim, and the very air seems alive with evil purpose. They skulk along passageways, seeking out a group of underlings who will not be missed overly much. She would hate to start a _war_ , after all, for she cannot imagine the Allfather would be terribly pleased with them if they renewed a fight Asgard had already won. Ten minions later, her ire still is not sated; after twenty, she can feel some of the rage begin to lessen. Loki is ever at her side, or her back, or skipping several steps ahead; in the thick smoky air here sometimes it is difficult to say where he might be, though she knows he fells his own foes in comparable numbers. 

Their fighting, always streamlined and rhythmic, now has a fearful symmetry to it, both of them moving together as though they were one dreadful warrior, imbued with the strength of bravery and arms and the strength of cunning and sorcery. At first she thinks it is the heat of this place, of doing battle here, that makes her blood warmer, but before long she realizes that there is much more to it. The way they move, so perfectly synchronized, so beautifully destructive, is as intoxicating as Asgard's most potent mead. 

Desire she understands, for she has felt it before, both for men and for battle, and with neither has she ever hesitated to take what is offered to her if she wants it. But somewhere between the fights of their youth and today, her heart has learned more than a brotherly sort of affection for him, and the realization of it shocks her, breaking over her like a wave. Her heart has been Asgard's alone for these many years, and now, all unbidden, that love and the loyalty that comes with it belongs not only to her realm, but also to the man at her side. When this had happened, she cannot say, and what she should do about it, she has even less understanding.

So she would not be Thor's queen, by her own admission, but would she be his, if that were even a possibility? Loki is intelligent and occasionally charming, but with his temperament and his mischievous sense of fun, she cannot fathom Asgard under his leadership. 

She does not have her brother's talents, but still she can see the long years of that life stretch in front of her as surely as she can see the sword in her hand. Her mother, long aggrieved by her wayward daughter's pursuit of war and glory, would be delighted to have her wed, and though surely her mother would prefer it be Thor, a prince is a prince. Royalty means duties, and while Sif is no stranger to them, it would almost certainly mean _children_ , and an awful vision of her future begins to take shape, one in which she forsakes glory and a valiant death in battle for the long slow torture of domesticity, bouncing children on her lap while her swords lie dull and dim, locked away in a closet as their master is locked away in matrimony. 

"Lady?" Loki's voice breaks into her thoughts, and she startles. At his feet lies the body of a fire demon, unconscious; Loki bends to it, dagger gleaming in the firelight. 

"Wait," she hisses, and his hand stalls, knife against the creature's throat. She squints down at the demon. "Look closely! This is surely one of Surtur's generals, we cannot kill him, his absence will be noticed." 

"Is he?" Loki spares the creature a glance. The toe of his boot scrapes across the strange regalia that decorates the creature's chest. When he speaks, his voice is curiously diffident. "I suppose he might be." 

Sif's eyes search his face. "Loki. Did you try to start a war... so that I would feel better?" 

"Of course not," he scoffs, looking away, but he is well and truly caught, and after a moment, he turns back to her, spreading his hands. "What else was I to give you? You already have weapons." 

"I thank you for your kindness," she drawls. She kicks at the body of the fire demon. "I suppose we should return home-- before we do something we should not." 

If he takes her words to refer to more than only this fight, he gives no outward indication. She hardly knows herself what she might mean, though she does feel no small amount of affection for him for what he has tried to do for her, even as ill-advised as it was.

"Thank you," she says again, once they are returned to Asgard. Her hand briefly brushes his, but she pulls back quickly, ignoring the corresponding pain in her chest as she does. The cool pommel of her sword is something of a comfort when she reaches for it, gripping it tightly. 

"Of course," he says smoothly, but he watches her hand on her sword. "If ever you desire a war, my lady, seek me out." 

"I will remember," she says. 

She is the first to leave the garden, but instead of returning to her chambers, she marches to the training grounds in the waning light of evening. The slice of her sword through the air is a welcome distraction from the burden of her many thoughts. Everything she does, she does for Asgard; she keeps nothing for herself but the memory of glory and her hope for the future. What Loki does, he does for himself, or perhaps more charitably for her, and she cannot deny that the thought warms her heart, even as the memory of the frozen stream chills it again. 

She will not travel with him for some time, she vows. Not until these strange feelings are somehow resolved, one way or another. 

+  
 _Asgard_

It is early evening when Loki slips away from the clamor and noise of the celebratory feast honoring yet another of his brother's achievements in battle. There is little use in his continued presence at the banquet; he had not been a party to this particular victory, and the longer the feast goes on, the more outlandish and grandiose the retelling of the battle becomes, and while he isn't overly concerned with the truth for its own sake, it is a bit tedious to hear when he has nothing to contribute. 

Then again, they've all had enough mead that they might believe him if he said he'd been there with them, but he's halfway to the gardens by the time he thinks of it, and he is disinclined to retrace his steps now. The gardens are peaceful and still in the waning light, a welcome contrast to the bright commotion of the halls he has just left, and he sits on a bench in the deepening twilight and tries to ignore the lingering resentment he feels over his exclusion from Thor's most recent celebratory banquet. It had been his choice to leave, of course, but they might have cared when he left, they might have noticed that he'd gone and called for him to stay. They did not. Of course. His thoughts have run this bitter course more frequently of late; more and more often he finds himself on the receiving end of jokes, and less often does he find that he is invited along on his brother's various adventures. Certainly he has various tasks to occupy his mind and his time, and he has absolutely no need to be included in events that will likely only end in disaster, given Thor's poor planning and predilection to act before thinking, but it irritates him to be continually excluded.

But then there are footsteps behind him, and he turns to face the Lady Sif, forgetting his irritation for the moment. It has been many long years since they last traveled together, though in his more generous moments he remembers their excursion to Vanaheim with a peculiar fondness. 

Her steps are halting; he recalls that the others at the feast had told of her injuries, and remembers his own uncharitable thought that even the Lady Sif was so part of their company now that her deeds were not forgotten even while his presence was not even required on these adventures. In the waning light he sees her stumble slightly and tries to think better of her, for well he knows how hard she has toiled to earn the respect of those who should have honored her without proof of valor. 

Her face is troubled and weary, but when she sees him, she stands taller. 

"I did not think anyone would be here," Sif says, resting by a nearby tree a few paces from the bench he occupies. "I had thought all of Asgard would be at the feast."

"So they are, but I am not. I had heard you were badly wounded," he says, eying her stance, the way she clearly favors one leg over the other. "I would not have expected the healers to release you."

"Perhaps they didn't," she replies, and at his raised eyebrows, she halts her forward progress and asks, very seriously, "Will you keep my secret?"

He shrugs and gives her the smallest of smiles, determined to play at good spirits, at least. "I seem to recall that I owe you for never mentioning my small part in that incident on Nidavellir."

"So you do. Consider us even," she says, and the briefest flicker of pain crosses her face when she shifts her weight to her injured leg.

"Perhaps you should have a seat," he says, and even in the starlight he can see the fierce, defiant light in her eyes. "It is no sign of weakness to rest a while and talk with a friend, is it, lady?"

"And where shall I find such a friend?" she asks, amused, but before he can reply she sighs and says, "Surely even warriors must rest."

"Surely so," he agrees, and when she stares at him reluctantly, he holds up his hands and hastens to add, "I'll utter not a word, I swear it."

"On what would you swear, exactly?" she says, curious.

"There was also the mishap on Muspelheim, if you'd consider us even on that as well."

She raises her eyebrows. "You're unusually generous this evening. What do you _want_ , Loki?"

He presses one hand to his chest, just over his heart, and looks up at her. "You wound me, my lady. I am a prince of this realm, is it not my sworn duty to care for the well-being of my _subjects_?"

"Oh, please," she laughs, but even so, without further explanation from him, she sits, a bit more carefully than she might otherwise. Her injury must have been grievous indeed that she takes such care now: he has hardly ever known her to be foolhardy, but neither has she ever been overly cautious.

"I did not know you remembered this place," he says, as much to distract himself from the uncomfortable nearness of her as anything else.

"I could say the same to you," she replies.

"Well, you had little use for it once you discovered _weapons_ ,"

"And you had little use for it once you discovered _words_ ," she parries.

"Just so," he agrees, altogether too familiar, and she takes a friendly swing at his shoulder.

"Handing out victories? You _are_ generous this evening."

"It's a new trick I'm trying," he says lazily. "How do you like it?"

"I haven't decided," she says, arching an eyebrow.

"Do let me know if you form an opinion," he drawls. 

"Oh, I could pummel you sometimes, I really could," she says. 

"And so you have," he points out.

"Then at least you will know what to expect," she says, and he holds up his hands, palms toward her.

"You'd attack a helpless man?"

She snorts her opinion of that. " _You_ are as helpless as a full-grown skogkatt, and at least twice as cunning. How do I know it's even you I'm speaking with? You could be behind a tree or up a roof."

"You could take my word for it," he suggests.

"Your words, yes, which are worth their weight in silver, as I recall," she says.

"Another hit," he says, lifting two fingers. "That's two, for you."

Sif settles back into the curve of the bench. "And what shall be my prize?"

"My generosity," he says, bowing slightly, and she laughs, the easy comfort between them descending into an equally comfortable silence as they enjoy the quiet of the evening. A peace he has not felt in a very long time falls over him. 

"Isn't that the tree that Thor nearly destroyed when we were children?" Sif asks, pointing out across the garden to an old silver birch. 

"I had nearly forgotten about that," he says, considering. "It's a wonder it survived, really."

"No thanks to you," she says, but her voice is warm and her tone is teasing, and he smiles at the memory. "It was entirely your idea."

He widens his eyes and presses his hand over his heart. "Me?"

The long dark tresses of her hair, down for the evening instead of up in the usual way, drift against his shoulder when she shakes her head at him. "Yes, _you_. You knew exactly what would happen if you told him he shouldn't use that weapon."

"Well, he wouldn't have cried over it if it hadn't been for you," Loki says, and it is her turn to feign innocence and cry, "Me?" 

"Yes, _you_ , lady, or was it some other young maiden who convinced my brother that that tree was part of Yggdrasil and that he'd be banished if we told Father?"

"That hardly even sounds like me," she says airily, lifting her chin towards the stars. "It sounds a good deal like you, however."

"Thank you for that, my lady," he says, bowing again.

"There's more to war than weapons," she says, shrugging. "Strategy, tactics, _stealth_."

"Oh, let us call it what it is," he laughs. "Let us call it a _lie_."

Sif's fingers trace the ornate metalwork that adorns the arm of the bench; she hums thoughtfully. "I never thought he'd believe me, you know. I only said it because he told me I was a maiden, and we maidens couldn't be warriors. I did feel bad about it. Later. _Much_ later."

"Not bad enough not to laugh at his efforts to fix it," Loki points out, remembering, and she really does laugh at that.

"He stuck himself to the tree," she cries, grinning. "And you as well, as I recall."

"One of my final moments of altruism," he says wryly. "It was kind of you to go and fetch Mother.  
Eventually." 

"It's a large palace, she was terribly difficult to find," Sif says. She tries to stretch her legs out in front of her, forgetting, apparently, about the extent of her injury, and she groans and grimaces and swears, setting her jaw angrily.

He looks down in concern, but does his best to keep it out of his voice, for he knows she would take it as an insult. "What happened?"

"I was _careless_ ," she says, spitting the word out as though she could not be rid of it quickly enough. "It will not happen again."

"Now, lady, I am certain that they are telling the tales of your bravery as we speak," he says, gesturing behind them in the direction of the great banquet halls.

"Hardly. I have walked a path that no other maiden of Asgard has dared walk; I can ill afford stupid mistakes," Sif growls. "If it had been Volstagg, or Fandral, or Hogun, or you or Thor, they would have raised a glass of mead and sung songs, but me? Will they not say that I was wrong from the beginning, that I should go back to my family's home and get myself a husband, stop playing at soldiers?"

"No one who has met you would say that, they fear your wrath, lady, and justly so," he says, the words unexpectedly earnest, even to his own ears. She looks at him sharply, perhaps anticipating some hidden meaning, but finding none, she sighs and falls silent. "They never really approved of my magic, either," he says, after a long pause that stretches out into uncomfortable silence.

"Don't be absurd," she says. "No one doubts _you_ ; at the very least, to utter such a slander would be treason, and at the most, there isn't a soul in all Asgard who hasn't been the victim of one of your little tricks."

"Tricks, yes," he growls. "That's all they are, isn't it? Children's games."

"If we thought they were games, Loki, we would never have requested you ride off with us to battle. We would never have wanted you with us."

He raises his eyebrows. "Wouldn't it have been _treason_ to say otherwise?"

"It would have been treason to drag a helpless prince off and get him killed," she returns evenly. "They do respect you, though your tactics may not be their own."

"Perhaps," he says, uncomfortable at the nagging thought that he might be in the wrong and therefore entirely unwilling to continue on in this manner. He would know better than she would, surely. "If you wouldn't have had me along, surely you know that we wouldn't have had you along, either, if any of us had thought you belonged anywhere but in the midst of battle." 

"I think that's a hit for you," she says, after a moment of silent consideration.

"Yet still you will not go to the feast?"

"If you are so eager to be rid of me--" she begins, making as though she will get up to leave.

"Not at all," he says, too quickly, but at least she doesn't go, not yet. "If you are not so eager to be rid of _me_ , lady, why have we not traveled again since Muspelheim?" 

"We nearly started a war, we were extraordinarily careless," she reminds him, but her lips twist, writing words that he cannot read. 

"I cannot believe that _you_ would have minded overly much if we had," he says, and he has said too much.

"Even warriors know the value of peace, Loki," she says.

"Most of Asgard would not use that word in the same sentence as my name."

"Most of Asgard hasn't seen you at your most _generous_ ," she replies, and he inclines his head toward her.

They sit in companionable silence for a time, until Sif sighs. "I should return to the healing rooms before my absence is noticed," she says, hastily standing, wincing all the while. "Damn this injury!"

He knows better than to help her stand, but he stands along with her, just in case. A thought occurs to him, and he holds his hand out to her. "Do you trust me?"

"Sometimes," she says, a wary smile on her face. 

He returns her smile and wiggles his fingers. "And at this moment?"

"Yes," she says, and she sounds uncertain, but her affirmative answer is good enough for him, and when she slips her hand into his, he waves his other hand, vanishing them away from the garden and back into the healing rooms. 

"I did not know you could do that," she says, looking around the room, one curious eyebrow raised as though she's not entirely sure that she's really where she seems to be.

"Nor did I," he says, feigning surprise, and she rolls her eyes and swats his arm playfully.

"Loki!"

"I'd ask you to keep my secret, but I fear I'm out of secrets to barter," he says, hand over his heart. "You have been much more well-behaved than I have over the years, my lady."

She looks at him for a long while. "I will trade you for it," she says at length. 

"What would you give me?"

"This," she says, and kisses him. Her lips are warm and her hands are firm against the leather that covers his chest, and if she leans into him a bit, gripping the straps of his armor, he is almost certain it is only due to her injury and nothing more. 

Almost. 

"A fair trade, I think," he says, when his mouth is once more his own. 

"Yes," she says, her hands lingering briefly on his chest. "I suppose it was." 

He resists, barely, the urge to reach out and take her hand and kiss it, mostly for fear that he will find himself on the floor of her room and in need of a good explanation for his presence when the resulting clatter rouses the master healers, but also for worry that she will regret her decision and reject it. 

"Goodnight, lady," he says, bowing slightly, and with another wave of his hand, the warm tones of the healing rooms dissolve into the cooler hues of the garden once more, and he is left to contemplate the events of the evening in silence.

+  
 _Midgard_

When he hears that the Lady Sif has been released from the healing rooms, he waits a week before he goes to seek her company, uncertain how things will proceed between them. He is uncertain where to find her, and Thor is the source of an unwelcome distraction from his mission. 

"Brother!" Thor calls, running up to meet him; reluctantly, he waits upon his brother. "I did not think to find you here. What calls you from the library?"

"I am taking a walk to help me think," Loki says, grinning over at Thor, "while I plan how best to save your worthless hide the next time you find yourself in the midst of a battle you cannot win." 

Thor laughs, the loud raucous sound of it echoing off the columns in the corridor. "If you refer to our most recent journey to Svartalfheim, brother--" 

"Oh, I do," Loki drawls. "And Alfheim. And Niflheim. And--" 

"It is true that I have had a great many victories with you at my side," Thor interrupts, laughing, no doubt thinking himself generous to include his brother at all.

Centuries of these conversations have prepared him to refrain from contradicting Thor, and he refrains from doing so now with practised indifference. "And just as many without me," Loki points out.

"You speak truly, brother, but it is not I who have not forgotten you," Thor tells him, and Loki raises an eyebrow. "Your head is always in your spellbooks of late, and you never travel with us now." 

"Forgive me, but I did not realize I was invited, as your company is now so decided that you never hear any soul in all Asgard discussing one of you without the others," Loki says. He clears his throat. "Have you heard the most recent tale of glory of Thor and Sif and the Warriors Three? It involves our faithful warriors engaged in battle with a veritable _army_ of dark elves, and it is the talk of all Asgard." 

Thor shakes his head. "If you would but come along with us more than once a century, it would be Thor, _Loki_ , the Lady Sif, and the Warriors Three, defenders of Asgard," Thor says, making a grand gesture. 

It should please him to be included, and Thor surely thinks he should be grateful, but all he hears is Thor's name first and his second, as usual, and he will have none of it today. "Another time, perhaps," Loki says, beginning to turn his steps in another direction, but then Thor's hand on his arm arrests his movement, and he sighs. "Did you have need of me for something? I am otherwise occupied at present, can it not wait?" 

"What so occupies your time that you cannot spend an afternoon with your friends?" 

" _Your_ friends," Loki corrects, but Thor pays him no mind. 

"We are going to Vanaheim," Thor says, elbowing his brother in the ribs. "I know you like that realm, you have remarked upon it before. What keeps you here? Books? Spells?" Thor pauses a moment and grins over at him. "Or has my younger brother finally found a woman who holds his interest?" 

"And why shouldn't I?" Loki demands, face hot with sudden anger. "Why shouldn't there be at least one woman in Asgard who wants _me_ instead of _you_?" 

He realises, all too late, that he has been _baited_ , and that now he is _caught_ ; Thor laughs delightedly, and the enthusiastic slap of his brother's palm to his back nearly knocks Loki into a nearby wall. 

"Brother, this is joyous news!" Thor proclaims, pulling Loki into an embrace before he can weasel away. He steps back, gripping Loki's shoulders, beaming. "Who is the fair lady? Is she of Asgard? Some other realm? Is she a sorceress? Does Mother know? Does Father? Tell me all!" 

"There is nothing to tell," Loki protests, and holds up his hand before Thor can ask again, with increased volume. "And there will continue to be nothing if you shout to all Asgard about it." 

"I have told _you_ about all of my various--" 

"Yes, and I have never _asked_ for any of that information, I hope you will recall, and it is all of it seared onto my memory for all eternity," Loki interrupts, grumbling as he remembers Thor's loud recounting of every sexual encounter he has ever had, while Thor only shrugs, not at all apologetic. "Were you not riding out to meet the others for your journey to Vanaheim? Surely you would not make them wait." 

"For you, I would," Thor says, grinning. "But today I will not. I shall go to Vanaheim without you, since you are otherwise engaged, but you owe me a tale or two, little brother. I will not forget." 

"We shall see about that. But utter not a word of this to anyone," Loki warns. A dagger materializes in his hand, and he brandishes it at his brother; Thor merely chuckles, which only irritates Loki further, but he cannot prolong this conversation, so only adds, teasingly, "I know where you sleep, Thor." 

"Yes, you do," Thor laughs, clapping him hard on the back once more. He winks over at Loki. "I can no longer say the same for you, but my best to your lady, wherever _she_ sleeps, _if_ she sleeps." 

"Your future king," Loki mutters, watching Thor stride away down the corridor, the bright red of his cape whipping out behind him as he goes. Irritated with Thor and at his own failure to conceal this burdensome sentiment, he leaves off searching for Sif until he can be sure they have all gone. Instead he joins his mother for a time; from the wide curve of her spacious living chambers, he has an excellent view of the bifrost and the observatory.

"Thor is off adventuring again," he explains when he arrives, and as always, she hears what he has not said, gesturing for him to sit. 

"I am sure he invited you," Frigga says, and he nods, but slowly, reluctantly. He would have denied it, but he has always found it difficult to lie successfully to his mother. Frigga reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing gently. "He should enjoy his freedom to ride off with you and with his friends while he can, surely, Loki. He will not be able to do that if he takes the throne." 

"Will he not?" Loki asks, for he thinks as he always has: Thor will ascend to the throne in glory, but he will fall from it in disgrace. "What if it all goes ill? Has no one a plan for that eventuality? What happens then?" 

"Then together, those that love him will help him rebuild, and we will emerge the stronger for it," Frigga replies gently. 

"Do you not love him at all, that you would let him fail all of us?" Loki snaps, and in an instant he regrets his words; few in Asgard have had occasion to see the steel that can glint in the queen's eyes. But he and Thor know it well, and when she turns that glare upon him, albeit briefly, he finds that he cannot hold her gaze. 

Frigga's fingers find his chin and turn his face back toward her, and when she speaks, her eyes are kind again and her voice is warm. "To love someone, my son, means that we love them for who they are, for their faults and for their strengths. It means that we are patient with them while they learn not to let those faults be their masters." 

"Yes, Mother," he says, but they both know that he is not entirely sincere, and he leaves her shortly thereafter, when brilliant light flashes out from the observatory, and he knows that his brother has gone. 

He resumes his search for Sif, mindful to conceal himself from those who might report back to his brother, for he is not ready for their secrets to be revealed, nor, he thinks, is she. If any announcements are to be made, they should come from the two of them, not from _Thor_. Thor will have the throne and the universe with it, but this one meager sliver of joy, at least, is not for him. Frigga's words sit ill with Loki as he thinks of what will surely become of this place under Thor's leadership, for he cannot help but think that it would be far easier-- far _better_ \-- to avoid the trouble altogether, if Odin would only once look upon him as _worthy_. He gazes out across the glittering golds and silvers of the cityscape before him. Surely Sif, for one, would shudder to see its light go dim under the rule of the wrong king. Sif at least understands his value; one day, he vows, the rest of this realm will see it, too. 

For the present, it is left to him to wait, to plan. He is patient; he will endure. As will Asgard, as will the universe, and on and on. 

Sif he finds not in the yards, where he expected her to be, but in one of the libraries, and she favors him with a promising smile when she hears his footsteps on the hard stone. 

"I thought perhaps I had transgressed in some way for you to avoid me so," Sif says, leaning back in her chair. "I know I am no silvertongued prince, but I do have it on good authority that I am fairly skilled at the art of kissing." 

His fingers trace the edge of the table while he tries to stamp down the surge of jealousy that threatens to overwhelm him. She is not his lady, not yet. "I should be glad to give you the opportunity to earn yourself such a moniker," he settles for saying, and she grins. 

"I find that I have some time on my hands, since I remain under orders to refrain from fighting," she says. She taps the book in front of her. "I also find myself intensely curious as to the current state of Midgard." 

"You would have me spend an afternoon with _mortals_?" 

"I would have you spend an afternoon with _me_ ," she says emphatically, leaning forward over the table to kiss him again, all warm lips and tongue, and it is many long pleasurable moments before she lets him speak. His ill humor fades to the background while she kisses him; he can hear it thrumming angrily in the recesses of his mind, but her lips are a welcome distraction. 

"Are you certain it is Midgard you wish to see?" he says, speaking low and soft against her ear, pleased when she shivers at the sound of his voice. 

She kisses him again, firm and decisive. "Among other things," she says, with a promising lift of her eyebrows. 

"Then let us be off," he says, offering his arm. 

The denizens of Midgard have progressed much in the long years since they have visited. Their conveyances are now motorized, at least, making this place somewhat bearable. It is evening in this city, a place called _New York_ , and everywhere there are mortals pushing past them in large crowds. They meander through the city, eventually finding themselves at some kind of exposition put on by someone named _Stark_. They amuse themselves by looking at the humans' idea of science, Sif remarking on the military applications of many of these projects. 

"I think perhaps we cannot walk around like this any longer," Sif says, after they attract more attention than either of them want. Someone asks them if they are an _exhibit_. 

Loki looks around at them, thoughtful, and then waves his hand, replacing their Asgardian clothing with something more appropriate for this place. Her dress goes just below her knees, the bodice of it a sheer beige overlaid with delicate green lace; for himself, he copies the suit of a passing gentleman, adopting a strange rounded hat, a widely striped jacket and trousers, a white shirt with a high collar, and a thin strip of fabric around his neck, something he is given to understand is called a _necktie_ , judging from a displayed sign in a nearby window. 

"This feels awfully strange," Sif remarks, looking down at her dress. 

"It is far lighter than our usual attire," he agrees. 

"I doubt it would be anything but a hindrance in a fight," Sif observes. "How useless." 

"Still," he says, eyes lingering on the curves of her body, "I find that it is not entirely unpleasant to look upon." 

"Hmm. A compliment from you?" 

"A rare moment of honesty," he says, lips quirking in a small smile. "It won't happen again this century, I swear it." 

She laughs, then, the sound of it clear and warm and true in his ear. He may not value truth overly much, but that laugh is a _prize_ , and one that he has earned. 

They do not return to Asgard that evening, but instead at her insistence and his willing acceptance, they stay. Mortal traditions have changed in the years that they have been away from Midgard, but from quick and careful observation, they discover that human travelers may find lodging in rented rooms; they find a moderately suitable place, Loki paying with illusory money that will vanish when they leave this realm. 

The room they are given is hardly as luxurious as that to which they are accustomed, but Sif gives him no time to complain about their accommodations. 

"I hope these mortal furnishings are not as fragile as they appear," she says, pulling him down onto the bed, which groans and creaks at their combined weight. "I am not disposed to be gentle with you for its sake." 

"My magic will repair it," he says, biting at her neck until she moans. Their clothing disappears with a twitch of his fingers, and the smooth expanse of all her glorious skin against his is more than he can bear silently. " _Sif_." 

"It is good that you know who you are with," she drawls, as her hands drift down his chest to his belly and below. 

"You are a _distraction_ ," he hisses, reaching down to take her hands away.

"I think perhaps you enjoy this manner of distraction," she teases, and he glances down at her again, narrowing his eyes. With a quick twist of his hands, magical bonds snake around her wrists, binding them together over her head. 

"That should do the trick," he jokes, but she only laughs in response. 

"Will it? How long have you known me?" she asks, and before he can move, she brings her feet around to his backside, pushing him forward, her knees holding him fast in place as she loops her arms, still bound together, around his neck. "You really might have seen that coming."

"Are you of the opinion that I did not?" he grins, bending to kiss her again. Without the interference of her hands against him, he is free to tease and explore her body, at least within the limited range her arms allow. It is fitting, he supposes, that they are bound together here by his magic and her strength. 

"I would enjoy the use of my hands," she says, when he lets her speak again. "And I think you would, as well." 

"I am certain that is so, my lady," he murmurs, voice echoing in the hollow of her neck. 

" _Please_ ," she says, as though he were really in charge of this situation, and he pulls back to look down at her, studying her face. 

"You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

"At all times," she grins, and when he releases her hands, neither of them speak in words for a long time after, and the only thing that is the worse for it is the bed, which she does insist that he repair before they return home. 

The memory of this evening and all the evenings like it that follow are nothing he will ever share with his brother. She is his, and so are all his memories of her. 

+  
 _Svartalfheim_

After Midgard, they continue on in a similar fashion, enjoying the thrill of their shared secret. And if she is not presently his in full view of Asgard, she is his covertly, for he leaves her gifts: unobtrusive implements of destruction, like the silver serpentine hair comb that is sharp enough to pierce skin or hide if thrown properly. When she wears these things, despite all her protestations, he knows that she really is _his_ , a symbol of his own strength, for surely Asgard's fiercest lady would not give her heart to any man who was not as strong as she. 

She sits next to him at banquets, her leg sliding against his under the table, and he comes to watch her fight, enjoying the graceful violence of it. If he interferes occasionally, using his magic to caress her skin from afar, enjoying the way her shoulders straighten, the point of her sword invariably seeking him out across the field, no matter that he is well hidden from view. He does it to test her resolve as much as he does it to irritate her, to get under her skin; Sif is never more beautiful than when she is angry with him, an increasing state of being that he openly encourages, for her hostility in public keeps anyone from supposing what they might be doing in private. 

"You did _not_ need to do that," she growls later when she storms into his chambers, though the force of her words is somewhat undermined by the way she kisses him, hard and angry, her teeth grazing his lips as she pulls away. 

"I am sure I do not know what you mean," he says, which earns him a slap to the face before she shoves him back onto his bed. 

"The next time you see fit to devil me while I am in the midst of training young warriors," she says, climbing atop him, "you will regret it." 

"If this is intended to make me feel regret--" he begins to say, but then her hands undo the buckles of his trousers, and he forgets to continue. 

"Do shut up," she says, and for the next several hours, he is pleased to comply.

"This does not have to be some sort of clandestine affair," she says, much later, as they lay side by side in his bed. "Though I would not give my mother further invitation to start scheming about marriages. Even _you_ would find her dreadfully difficult to slip." 

"Is that where all your considerable _tenacity_ comes from," he drawls. 

"Do not say you have been displeased by it," she laughs. 

"I suppose I have not been," he says, boredly drawing lazy circles of magical light in the air above the bed, distracting himself from the import of the words he speaks next. "I suppose we could, you know." 

He feels her shift around and look over at him. "We could do what?" she asks. 

His lips pull over to one side of his mouth. "Marry," he says, and when she sighs, the light he has cast above them turns to silvery ice before he vanishes it away. 

"You know that I cannot," she says. 

"I know that you _will_ not, which is not the same," he snaps. 

Her fingers curve around his upper arm, but he will not look at her. 

"Loki," she sighs. 

"It is no matter," he lies. 

"It is not _you_ ," she says, squeezing his arm. 

"What else?" he snaps, finally turning his head to look at her; she takes her hand away. 

"Your _title_ ," she says. She throws back the blankets and slips out of bed, stalking over to grab her clothing from the floor. "We have had this discussion before, long ago." 

"That discussion was about my brother," he growls. "But aren't they all?" 

"No," she says firmly, "they are _not_ , unless you make it so." 

She leaves in a rush, her armor half undone, while he lays in bed, seething, the plans he's been making for them turning over and over in his mind. Her heart is Asgard's, that much he has always known, but he had hoped that over the years she might have learned to feel differently after all he has done for her and for Asgard. She has certainly learned to enjoy his _company_ well enough after all these years; perhaps after more time passes, her mind will be altered further. He looks over at the empty space she has left, frowning to himself. Sif can swear all she likes that she is not one for marriage; he has time to wait for her to come around to his way of thinking. 

So he waits, and she wears weapons in her hair, and they sneak into one another's chambers or find quiet empty spaces in the libraries or the armories. He does not mention marriage again; he will wait for her to think it was her idea all along. 

She is wearing the hairpin he gave her the night that all of Asgard seems to hold a banquet in a Thor's honor. There had been some battle on Alfheim; the way Loki understands it, Thor, in all his foolhardy impatient arrogance, threw himself headlong into a fight that was not his own, some conflict between invading fire demons and the elves. And for his presumption, he is _rewarded_ , for this honor comes with a prize: the warhammer Mjolnir, forged in the heart of a dying star by the smiths of Svartalfheim, a weapon that can only be wielded by those it deems _worthy_. Naturally, all the drunken warriors at the feast make a show of trying to heft it, to no avail. Loki does not bother making an attempt himself, as he does not make a habit of acting like a fool in front of all of Asgard, though the same cannot be said for most of the warrior class-- including, to his dismay, his own lady. 

He watches her with Thor and the others, laughing together as they all have a turn pulling at the handle of the hammer. The symbolism is not lost on him, and rather than remain to have her insult him further, he leaves the banquet early. When he hears Sif's footsteps outside his chamber doors, he freezes the lock and returns to fitful slumber, dreaming of weapons of his own to rival that damned hammer. Upon waking, he rises with a purpose and makes for the library, searching through ancient texts until he finds something useful. 

Sif finds him there, but she does not interrupt his reading; she takes off her sword and settles it on the table. 

"I looked for you after the banquet," she says finally. 

"I was exceedingly weary," he lies, and she raises an eyebrow. 

"You look well-rested now," she says, and he nods and closes his books. 

"I find that I am in a traveling mood," he tells her, and she smiles and reaches for her sword. 

They come to the land of the dark elves, Svartalfheim, makers of Thor's sainted Mjolnir, the most recent in a long line of gifts from the Allfather to his eldest and most favored son. Loki has not seen fit to inform Sif of the reason for their visit, for certainly it was more than his _mood_ : he is here seeking weapons of his own. What his father will not give him, he will take for himself. They wander for a time, fighting a few creatures that crawl through the dark and make to attack them; together they teach them the error of that decision. 

He waits until they make camp to slip away from her, under cover of darkness and his own magic. According to the texts he found in the library this morning, hidden somewhere in the halls of a nearby city is a scroll with darker spells than he has ever had occasion to know before, magic that his mother would never have dreamt of teaching him. Deep in the vaults of the city he finds it, just as the book had described: here are spells that will make him more powerful than other mage in all of Asgard, more powerful than even Thor with all his brute force. One day, this will be useful. Very useful. 

His searching took longer than he had intended, and upon his return to their camp, Sif is awake and searching for him; fortunately, he had returned prepared for this eventuality. 

"Where did you go? I thought you had been spirited away," she demands. "I was about to call for Heimdall." 

"Forgive me, my lady," he says, bowing slightly, hands behind his back. "I confess I had another motive for coming here than simply taking in the, ah, _scenery_." 

She bats at his arm, and though the gesture is playful, for a moment he would swear there is a hint of distrust in her eyes. "Out with it," she says. "What have you done?" 

"Close your eyes and hold out your hands," he says. If he is losing her trust, he would know it now, and again he would swear she hesitates, but she does give in. 

"Very well," she says, doing as he requested, and into her hands he settles twin silver daggers, forged by the elves of this realm, curved like the ornament he gave her for her hair. They were made for him, years ago, but they have never been used, and she does not need to know that he did not have them journey here solely to collect them. 

"They are perfect," she tells him, testing their weight. 

"Use them in good health," he says, and she kisses him. "For me." 

"I will use them for Asgard," she says, and there is that note of skepticism again. "To serve our realm with all my strength is all I have ever wanted. I would give my life for her glory. You know that, do you not?" 

"Of course," he says hollowly. His fingers twitch at his sides. "As would we all." 

Sif's answering nod is slow, her eyes openly full of suspicion. 

They do not speak again until the mountains of Svartalfheim are far behind them

It is plain that she loves Asgard more than she will ever love him, and love's usefulness is thinner and more threadbare every day. What has sentiment ever earned him but secondary status? His mother has long counseled patience, her soft soothing voice saying that love is not a force of destruction; he doubts its utility, if that is the case. It has never served him well, at any rate. 

The day will come when her loyalties will be tested. He only hopes she does not fail him when that day arrives. 

+  
 _Niflheim_

Sif sees far less of Loki after they return from Svartalfheim, though she tries to seek him out. He evades her, insisting that he is working on some new spell. Eventually she leaves off trying, confused by his absence. She travels with Thor and the Warriors Three more often, enjoying new adventures with her friends; more than once, she tries to convince him to join them. 

"We make for Alfheim today. Come with us, perhaps we will find another dragon to slay," she says, her fingers brushing over his. She frowns when she finds that his hand is cold, and she makes to cover her hand with his own, but he shifts away. 

"I do appreciate the invitation, but as you see, I am busy," he says, waving his hand at the books before him. 

"What have I done to displease you, that you ignore me so? You gift me these daggers and then you disappear into the libraries, never to be seen again?" she demands, and he glares up at her.

"I leave you to make war as you like, do I not?" He waves his hand at her, cold and dismissive. "Please, go and enjoy my brother's company, it matters not to me." 

Frustrated and tired, she slaps her hand down on the table in front of him; it pleases her to see him jump. "On your feet," she snaps. 

"Why?" 

"You owe me a journey to Niflheim, and I am not leaving unless it with you, in hopes that you will cease this childish behavior!" 

They glare daggers at one another for several long moments, and then with a carefulness that manages to be threatening, he closes his book and stands. 

"As you wish," he says, every word covered in ice. It matches the cold they find when they arrive in Niflheim.

The frigid air of that realm is a shock; even under the layer of her fur-lined jerkin Loki has conjured for her, Sif feels the snap and bite of it. Loki, however, seems unphased, and it irritates her, the way he taunts her slow steps in the snow. He is altogether too different of late: his jokes are pointed and sharpened as though he has weaponized his very wit, and shadows do not so much _cross_ his face as they _linger_ there, brooding and malevolent, and what they signify she knows not, for he will not share his thoughts with her as he once did. For her part she has no patience to wait around and untangle all the twisted threads of his thoughts, but she knows him less and less with each passing day, and it troubles her. 

They are set upon by a ring of hellbeasts, reminding her of their long ago battle on Vanaheim and his unexpected kindness to a young maiden who sought to follow in his companion's footsteps. She has not seen that softness in his face in centuries, and it is not merely the passage of their youth that has changed him. Surely he has aged, as has she, but she fears he has not gained the wisdom they always bantered about. Something else has grown in its place, and his jealousy makes her weary. 

"That would have been easier if we had brought our friends," she remarks, hours later, after they have slain all the beasts. Her nose is past the point of feeling, her face is so cold. 

"I should share all my secrets with those fools?" he demands, and she steps backward, not out of fear, but out of confusion, for she had thought her comment harmless enough, and their friends may jest often and boast loudly, but they are no fools. 

"I doubt that you would share them with _me_ now," she says angrily. "What has come over you?" 

"Your constant insistence that I no longer hold your interest unless I happen to be accompanied by my brother," he snaps. 

"I did not even mention your brother," she says slowly, as though he were a child again, for surely he is acting like one, an angry, sullen child who has not gotten his way. It occurs to her, then, what has troubled him. 

"You know that Mjolnir could only have gone to whom the hammer itself had chosen," she says.  
Not even you can control that sort of magic." 

"Of course," he says, bowing stiffly. "If you don't mind, I would like to return home?" 

She stares at him, trying to find in his face any vestiges of the friend of her youth. Finding none, she can only nod, and she follows him back home in silence. 

+  
 _Jotunheim_

The day the Allfather announces that Thor will be crowned Asgard's new king, Loki summons Sif to their usual garden for another journey to a distant realm. She is slow to arrive, and he gives her grief for it, for he is not intending to make an idle journey today.

With his father's announcement still burning in his ears, the plans he made long ago must be put into motion. Ideally, she would have married him by now, but as she has not, he must ascertain how faithful she will be to him in some other way. She might have refused him before, but she will not refuse a king, not one who understands that she is as much a weapon as the swords she carries. She will see, after the Jotnar invade Asgard, after Thor leads them to make reckless bloody war with Jotunheim, that Thor should not be king, that he does not deserve to wield Mjolnir. She loves Asgard more than she loves Loki, but when he is king that distinction will be meaningless, for the king _is_ the realm. 

But first she must trust him enough to let him change her mind about Thor, and so they must travel again. It is regrettable that he has to test her thusly, but it is also imperative. 

"What is so important that you are in such haste?" she queries. 

"You will see, I am certain," he says, and opens the pathway to their destination. 

"Where are we?" she asks, bewildered, when they step out of the innermost branches of Yggdrasil into a land of darkness and ice. "Niflheim, again?" 

"Hardly," he says. He had thought her brighter than this, surely; she has been spending too much of her time of late with his brother and her oafish friends. "I told you, lady: we had not yet been to _all_ of the nine realms." 

He knows the moment she perceives the truth of this place, for her hand snaps from her side to twist up in his hair, yanking his face down so that his eyes meet hers. 

He leers down at her. "That isn't why I brought you here, lady, but if you have need of me--" 

"Take us _back_ ," she demands, shoving him away. "It is forbidden to be here, what were you thinking? If we were to be _seen_ \--" 

"The mighty warrior is afraid of a fight?" he taunts, but too late he remembers that Sif is no Thor: she is made of less malleable material, and she will not be manipulated further. 

"Take us _home_ ," she says. Her voice is quiet and low, but he does not miss the steel in it, and he swallows around fear he refuses to show her. "Or I will call for my brother to collect us, consequences be damned." 

"As you like," he says, waving his hand. "But you _disappoint me_ , Sif." 

She insists upon walking behind him, all the way back to Asgard; he does not need to look to know that her sword is drawn. 

"This is _over_ ," she shouts, as soon as they are back in the garden. 

"It is no matter to me, for your _usefulness_ was at an end at least a century ago," he says, just to be cruel. 

He catches her fist before it reaches his face, and he knows the force of the magic he uses is cold enough to hurt her, but still he hangs on, until at last she wrenches free and kicks his feet out from under him. "At least we know where your loyalties lie," he snarls up at her. 

"And it was not your place to test them," she snaps, spitting the words out. 

She leaves him without another word, and he refuses to chase after her, refuses to dignify such a betrayal. 

And so he has his answer, unpalatable as it is. She would have been an excellent queen, if only she had been more loyal. But if Sif will not stand with him then he will do what is best for Asgard and he will do it alone. She will beg for forgiveness when she sees this realm under better rulership than that of his idiot brother, and if Sif is fortunate and Loki is charitable, he will only laugh her from the throne room instead of having her taken away in chains for her faithlessness and disloyalty. 

He reopens the portal, intent on going back to Jotunheim to finish what he began. The inner branches of Yggdrasil spread out in the black space he has opened, pathways to all the realms leading off in all directions. Even through the bitter anger that consumes him, he cannot help but recall now the journeys he has taken with her and regret that it had to end as it did, with her forsaking him for a dreamer's hope that his brother could ever hope to do anything with this place but cause it harm. To his left, the path to Jotunheim calls; to his right, the branches leading to Vanaheim flicker softly, beckoning. Through a haze of cold fury he remembers his last visit to that place, a thousand years ago or more; he recalls the mages' courts there, the warm summer air. 

"If you are ever forced to leave Asgard after one too many pranks," she had teased gently, "you should come here." 

Perhaps she never cared at all; perhaps she has only ever been his enemy, even all those years ago. 

All these pathways stretch out now before his feet, but for him there are only two that matter. One leads to a throne, the other to exile, and none that lie between are worth a moment's consideration. 

He makes his choice, and the ground is cold under his feet when he arrives, alone. 

It has always been safer alone.

+  
 _Epilogue_

Sif stands in the bifrost chamber, flanked by her friends and Loki. They should all be celebrating now, toasting their friend and new king, but instead they are preparing to defy Odin's command and travel to Jotunheim at Thor's insistence. The secrets she bears are an uneasy burden now; she does not wish to return to that frozen wasteland, today or any day hence. 

Heimdall warns them of the dangers of this journey, and she cannot help but let her eyes shift askance to focus on Loki. The memory of his cruel trick still weighs heavily on her heart, and she is ashamed to have let love make her susceptible to it, ashamed to have let it make her _weak_. Loki spares a glance at her as well, their curious synchronicity surviving even past the end. Perhaps she had hoped, all in vain, for some sort of apology reflected in his eyes, or better still some measure of regret, but there is nothing but contempt shot through with fear, and she sets her jaw and turns her face back toward the portal. Already, she begins to suspect that she knows who set the Jotnar upon them, on this morning of all mornings, on what was to be Thor's day of glory, but she will not yet believe it. She will not believe that it has come to that. So after they return, she pleads with him one last time as their friends gather to mourn Thor's banishment, appealing to a better nature she desperately wants to believe is not entirely lost. 

"He has always been jealous of Thor," she tells them after he goes, and she wishes that her words felt like less of a betrayal.

When she sees him on the throne, she has to accept what she guessed long ago: her friend is now her enemy, and the man she loved died a quiet death years ago, replaced entirely by this embittered imposter. She is the last to leave the throne room, staying long enough to gaze upon the monster who has murdered her lover. They share a silent nod of mutual resentment, as if to say, "So be it," and her hands are clenched into fists all the way back to the chambers where she and her friends discuss treason, if treason it can even be called, for _this_ Loki is no king. She will kill him if she must. She will kill him if she _can_ , and she knows he understands this. 

He has courted war twice; this time it will cost him his life. 

After he falls, she attends the feasts; she drinks wine and laughs with her friends. She bars sadness any entry to her heart, for only rage dwells there now, alongside regret. Her friends tell her that she fights now with a ferocity akin to that of a berserker, and she bares her teeth more than she used to when she smiles and thanks them. Her anger has made her stronger. 

Of all of them, only Thor sees her one moment of weakness. The two of them stand on the cusp of the ruined bifrost, staring out into space, each of them looking for love lost, hearts like the shattered bridge beneath them, desperately seeking repairs that are yet centuries in the making.

"Do you think he ever really loved us? Was all of it a lie?" she asks finally, her deepest fear crawling its way out of her mouth and into the air between them. Thor's hand grips her shoulder, a small comfort. 

"I cannot believe that it was," he tells her, but there are tears in his eyes that he does not try to hide, and when their eyes meet, she thinks, somehow, that he knows all, though she has confessed nothing. "We had brighter days, once." 

Anger chases the fear away, and her fingers find the hilt of her sword at her side, hand wrapping tightly around the grip. "Did we?" she asks.

"Surely these shadows will not endure forever, Sif," Thor says. 

"Surely," she replies, but she does not believe him; when she looks at his face and at the despair and the anger and the hurt that is there, she does not believe that he believes himself.

Odin enchants her sword, and she travels again, alone, telling herself as foe after foe falls dead at her feet that she has only ever needed this, that she misses neither the crackling energy of magic at her side nor the quick silent footsteps of a man she once loved as much as war. The rage that drove her out the door dwindles, replaced by a hollow, echoing chasm, the same one she sees reflected in her last memory of Loki, resentful and malevolent, a cold fury in his eyes that she feels in every molecule of her being. 

Long after the battles are over and Loki returns to them again in chains, the twisted bitterness of his face at last matching the infinite well of misery he carries beneath it, she keeps his secret, for it is also her own. No songs will be sung of the great deeds of the Lady Sif and Prince Loki on their secret travels to other realms, for they are only two who know those tales, and both of them have locked them away inside hearts that are colder than the thick frost that covers the ground of Jotunheim. 

Winter has come to both their hearts, and it may be that neither of them will ever again know a warmth that can thaw such a frost.


End file.
